


Self-determination and all that

by bricksandbones



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Self-Harm, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:58:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bricksandbones/pseuds/bricksandbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethan is a sap. Astrid takes antibiotics, and drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self-determination and all that

**Author's Note:**

> Not *that* Astrid. 
> 
> Slightly wistful, very much self-indulgent, semi-autobiographical. Old work from well back in 2013 but I've found myself revisiting many of these sentiments in the recent weeks.

            “Mm,” Astrid protested when she felt Ethan’s lips brush her mouth. They were crammed into a loveseat barely large enough for the both of them, shoulders and shins touching and wallowing in action films and Chinese takeout.

            “Go ‘way,” she muttered, trying to direct her attention back to _Iron Man 3._

            He laid his cheek against hers, stubble tickling her chin.

            “Why?”

            “In case you don’t remember, I currently have _three stitches in my mouth,”_ she hissed quietly. “Don’t really feel like kissing right now?”

            “Please? No tongue,” he promised, looking at her imploringly.

            She batted at his face in irritation, the emotion not a little fuelled by frustration at the irrational temptation she was feeling.

            “Why are we even considering this?” she wondered aloud. “I mean, we don’t have a _thing_ going on. Do we?”

            He sighed, dropping his curly blond head onto her shoulder.

            “We’re neither of us attached right now,” he pointed out. “And I love you to bits. Can’t we have a cuddle now and then?”

            “Sure, when I’m reasonably certain that the amoxy’s not gonna make me barf all over you,” Astrid joked, then sighed abruptly. “But really now. I’m not going to lie, you’re lovely, I happen to like kissing, I think I’d quite enjoy it actually – but do people who aren’t seeing each other normally end up kissing? And we don’t have any intention of seeing each other _that way,_ do we?”

            “Does it matter what people _normally_ do? I mean, it’s not like you to care, is it? And it’s not like we’re _making out_ or anything,” he argued. “Just – “ he waved his hands around vaguely. “Chaste kisses. Semi-chaste. I don’t know.”

            “Does this have to do with the fact that I actually _do_ have stitches in my mouth?” Astrid guessed, surprising him with her shrewdness. He laughed shakily. 

            “Oh God, Stri. _Yes!”_ he exclaimed. “How d’you think I felt, when you were so _ridiculously_ late back from your appointment and just came through the door going, ‘well I’ve got LR8 out now, and amoxicillin, and by the way Tramadol which is probably contraindicated for five reasons I could name, and oh could you get me some salt water for those stitches?’. I was _worried,_ damn you!”

            “So, what, you feel the need to reassure yourself that my face remains in one piece?” she asked, with the characteristic mocking she reserved for expressions of concern about her well-being. “I’m a big girl, I can handle a measly extraction by myself.” She poked him playfully in the stomach. “Now, if it were a GI operation – _that,_ I’d tell you guys about.”

            He kissed her, firmly and chastely.

            “I should _hope_ so,” he admonished. “Also, don’t expect me to pretend I don’t know you’ve been drinking. Arthur’s a wuss; he doesn’t drink spirits. I bet the dwindling level of Hennessy is your doing.” He was referring to the small flacon of cognac tucked away in the back of their ‘beverage cupboard’, which was mostly filled with tea and coffee but also a healthy amount of every other (it seemed) non-refrigerated drink on earth. It had been a gift from her father, who seemed to mostly approve of Astrid’s underage drinking as long as it helped her keep her _other_ problems under the university’s radar.

            “Hmm.” Astrid nuzzled back at his mouth distractedly. “Yeah, okay, you’re perfectly right. But I looked it up – it doesn’t react with amoxy or anything.”

            “Probably not making your stomach feel less queasy, though, huh?” he jibed.

            “At least I can get to _sleep,”_ she huffed. “I _hate_ amoxicillin. _So much.”_

            “I like it,” Ethan declared. “If you were feeling any less crap, you wouldn’t be watching _Iron Man_ with me. You’d probably be _reading.”_ He stuck his tongue out at her, honestly inordinately pleased that his favourite workaholic classmate was spending her weekend throwing a pity party with him rather than getting work done, as she usually was.

            “You like the fact that I feel like a piece of scrap metal right now,” Astrid deadpanned.

            “No you don’t,” he assured her, snuggling down luxuriantly. “No sharp edges, see?” He grinned triumphantly.

            She gave an unladylike snort.

            “Ethan Montgomery, I do believe you’re insinuating that I’m _fat_.”

            “No!” He threw up his hands in only half-feigned terror. “Nonono that’s not what I meant, I meant that you’re, um, cuddly?” he ventured lamely. “Like a teddy bear?”

            Astrid raised an eyebrow.

            “Oh shit. That didn’t help either, did it? I’m in the doghouse!” he whined.

            “If you were a dog, I’d give you to someone else,” Astrid replied blandly. “You’ve been slobbering all over me all through _Batman,_ I see,” she remarked, picking gingerly at an oddly crusted spot on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “Good thing this is about nine years old.”

            “Bleh,” Ethan reached over and promptly began slobbering in her ear instead.

            _“Ew!”_ she shrieked, trying to push him away. “Ohmygod that is _disgusting.”_

“You’re laughing,” Ethan pointed out smugly. “Admit it, you love me.”

            Astrid stifled a final chuckle and rolled her eyes.       

            “ _You_ know,” she grumbled.

            Ethan gave her a wistful smile and slipped his fingers under the sleeves of her shirt, tracing the scars along her forearms with his thumbs. He watched Astrid’s eyes widen, her spine stiffening momentarily, reflexively, before she relaxed into the touch.

            “Is this okay?” he whispered.

            Astrid flushed and nodded, holding her breath, letting Ethan roll up her sleeves and hold the scars up wonderingly to the light. No-one had ever paid so much attention to them before, nor so gently; she was vaguely aware that most people, by now, had to _know_ they were there but, like her panic attacks, they were something people seemed to prefer to pretend not to have seen. Normally, that suited her well – “passing” was her forte, after all, as was caring rather less that one would expect when she failed to really pass.

            But Ethan – oh god, he was bending down, _kissing_ them – instinctively, Astrid thrashed and tried to jerk her wrists out of his hold but he merely shushed against the skin and held on.

            _“Shhh,”_ he blew, staring, fascinated by the faint crisscrossing silver lines, unsure as to where the scars ended and the natural creases of her skin began. There were so _many._ He desperately wanted to know _why;_ the story behind each one, find the fears and insecurities that had led to this and nix them one by one.

            “Hey?” Astrid breathed from somewhere above his head. “What’cha thinking about?”

            “How sad this is,” he told her honestly. “How much I wish it had never happened.” He looked up to see her pained, rueful smile.

            The sentiment might have offended her, coming from anyone else. Astrid always maintained that it had been a good thing to have happened how and when it had; the sword was forged in the flame, didn’t you know, and she’d always had it coming one way or another, genetic destiny would hint as much. It had been better to get it over with, sooner rather than later, she claimed. Also, that she really remembered very little of her teenage angst (because, besides biochemistry, she really remembered very little at all).

            “But it did,” she whispered. “And I’m okay.” Even if that opinion were debatable by some standards.

            Ethan expressed his scepticism by humming, declining to dignify her flimsy assurance with a verbal response.

            “Are you worried about Megan?”

            He started, but supposed the question wasn’t entirely unrelated nor unexpected, after all.

            _“Does_ she cut herself?” he wanted to know.

            Astrid gave a minuscule shake of her head.

            “I don’t reckon so. Not _there,_ anyway,” she said, nodding to her wrists. “Probably has better sense.”

            “She…hasn’t brought this up to you?”

            Astrid furrowed her brow, expression taking on an edge of exasperation.

            “Megan’s not… _stupid._ I mean, she _knows_ that if she _did_ tell me, I likely wouldn’t get her into any trouble for it.” She tossed her head to express her mirth, restrained as she was from making air quotes around the word ‘trouble’. “Seeing as I’m sort of in the same boat. On the other hand, she also knows that a) I couldn’t really, _don’t_ really give a damn –“ Ethan’s hands tightened around her wrists at that, “and b) would probably kick her to Timbuktu for implying that _any_ of what she’s going through could possibly be your fault.”

            “I don’t understand how you can say that you don’t give a damn,” he protested mulishly. “Didn’t it hurt?” _Wouldn’t you have liked someone to have cared?_

            “Yes, but that was rather the _point.”_ Astrid said it as if it were something obvious or if it explained something, and Ethan felt that _this was it;_ that they were coming to the fundamental disjunction between Astrid and the rest of the world. “I don’t even really think it was a bad thing, remember?” She nudged him gently with her hip. “I wasn’t worried when it came to myself – _still_ don’t understand why other people worry about it, if it comes to that – I can’t get around my head _how_ or _why_ I’m supposed to be worried about Megan. 

            “You don’t even think suicide is a bad thing,” Ethan sighed, remembering a class discussion they’d had months ago, when Astrid had been inordinately and uncharacteristically furious about physical restraints placed on psychiatric patients.

            “I rather approved of allowing people to starve themselves to death,” she acknowledged wryly. “Although I’d _much_ prefer if someone would give them a lethal dose of morphine and have done with it.”

            “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he admitted carefully, trying not to stray into the territory of blame.

            “Don’t worry, sometimes I don’t understand myself,” Astrid responded lightly. “I’ll have to admit to not being very intellectually consistent,” she continued, as if that were the problem.

            “No, I don’t understand how you can _not_ think this is a big deal,” he corrected gently, bringing his lips back down to her wrists. “It hurts me to look at them,” he murmured, and half-expected Astrid to jerk back with some sharp retort along the lines of, “then _don’t”._

            “I don’t understand how you could _possibly_ enjoy rugby,” Astrid pointed out, oddly calm. He felt as though she must have had similar conversations a hundred times before. She _must_ have talked about it, he guessed, at least with Arthur. “There’s rather a lot of pain involved in _that_ too, isn’t there? And to what purpose? I mean – I _know_ it’s important to you, but I don’t get it. Like you don’t get this. It’s not something I regret, I don’t even think of it as remotely sad – why should I? I’ve got all the use of my hands. What does it matter what the insides of my wrists look like?”

            “Because. It shows that you were in _pain,”_ he huffed.

            “I was in pain anyway,” she protested. “The physical evidence is unimportant. Besides, I reckon you were in quite a lot of pain when you broke your leg?” She nudged his shin with her toes.

            “But that was the result of a decision I made,” Ethan argued, already resigned to the idea that he would not be winning this argument.

            “And I made these decisions,” Astrid’s reply came, exactly as expected. “And we’re both okay. Aren’t we?”

            He wanted to say that, well, maybe Astrid _had_ made those decisions, but maybe she hadn’t been in her right mind, but he knew that would be the last straw. 

            He settled for kissing her again.

            “If you insist,” he surrendered. “Can I?” he asked, not quite sure what exactly he was asking for. “Can I make sure you’re okay?”    

            “I don’t think anyone can make sure anyone else is anything,” Astrid said gently. “Self-determination and all that, you know.” 

            “I want to try,” he countered stubbornly.

            She pecked him gently on the lips and sat up.

            “And I’m more trouble than I’m worth,” she told him without bitterness. “I could do with a shot of that cognac,” she said, getting up. “Don’t let’s talk about it. Do you want some?”


End file.
